#Carrion House | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nashiriel · 10 months ago

Note

could we get the scene of the immediate aftermath of the whole cannibal x bb!luke bonding? like luke’s family’s realizations and immediate reactions?

Hi anon! Sorry it took me a while to get to this interesting ask!

TBH, thinking it through, a lot of the reactions would probably mirror the aftermath in the main fic. Though perhaps considerably heavier on the WTF aspect , for obvious reasons!

But below are a couple of rough snapshots of some different perspectives on the matter...

She had carried fear with her from the moment they first laid Jace, pink and squalling, in her arms. Does not a mother always? That which came with his first fever, his first tumble from Vermax’s saddle, the first day he went proudly to the training yard. Other nightmares too, those her maidenhood’s mind would never have conjured; Alicent’s seething triumph at each dark-haired babe presented to her, the whispers crawling through court when Luke’s egg stayed cold and inert in his cradle. And then, to find her family besieged in the Velaryons’ own halls, the flash of Alicent’s dagger raised towards her child, the sting of its bite barely felt amidst the bitter satisfaction of finally having that pious poison loosed before all.

But none of these compare to the moment the messenger staggers gasping into her solar. Rhaenyra hears children, beach, hears the Cannibal, and then all that comes between then and the moment she dives from the sky upon Syrax, is lost to a cold roar of panic.

She had known the Stranger’s face long before her own children’s. She knows what to expect as the beach opens up before Syrax’s wings, wet sands and sweeping ink, even as every scrap of her screams against it-

The bodies of her men still lie smouldering. A dragon, white and slender as mist, crouches atop the rocks, pockmarks of dark sand bubbling to glass where blood drips from his scored hide. Laena’s girl kneels by the pale splay of his wing, cradling an arm blistered raw to the elbow as she stares with eyes scored empty with pain and wonder.

The Cannibal, looming amidst it all. Black and vast and terrible, and the entirety of him tethered to complete stillness under the outstretched palm of her son.

“Mother,” Lucerys breathes when he sees her, and she watches the dragon’s eyes sharpen back into sudden fury, sensing her presence only now as her son breaks his gaze.

“Mother, look! I found a dragon-”

The Cannibal’s hiss, a gust of wind lashing through the caverns of the Dragonmont, splits the air as Rhaenyra hurls herself forward to seize Luke in her arms. His startled yelp is lost amidst the unfurled shadow of Syrax’s wings, and with a surge of triumph, Rhaenyra glimpses Caraxes rippling scarlet against the sky.

Luke clings to her and the Cannibal’s rage fizzles back into stillness. She presses Luke close to her heart as she stares up at its eyes, knowing that her flesh alone cannot shield him from its flames but willing without hesitation to protect him with it until the last.

Amidst black scales, eyes gleam back at her, slit green and murderous, before the Cannibal stretches its neck and snatches up the corpse of one of Luke’s guards. Too late, Rhaenyra tries to press Luke’s face to her neck to spare him the sight as the dragon’s jaws languidly cleave the body in two, the ridge white of the spine trailing tattered peach flesh as the lower half lands with a wet thump before Luke’s shocked eyes.

Those teeth jut taller than Luke himself. Rhaenyra will not think of how the Cannibal could have simply swallowed the corpse - his fellows too - in one efficient bite, if that had been the sole purpose of that display.

It takes the combined might of Syrax and Caraxes to ward the dragon back from following Luke and Rhaena back to the castle. She is not fool enough to think it gone completely; as dogs bay when a wolf ventures close to the homestead, so Syrax’s fury snarls through the night when she senses it prowling the clouds above. With a cold loathing, she knows Luke must be brought out again come the daylight, for his word alone would send it back to its cavern of corpses.

And still her sweet boy frets as she tucks him into bed that night, a task she refused his maids despite how her hands still shake.

“Won’t he be lonely, all by himself in his cave, Mother, if there are no other dragons in his nest? Can’t I see him? Tyraxes still sleeps with the baby.”

The notion of the Cannibal curled in sleep with his belly puffed in the air like Joffrey’s drowsing hatchling is almost enough to bring a laugh to Rhaeynyra’s lips before she recollects herself, smoothing down Luke’s hair with wearied affection.

“He’s far too large to sleep with, sweetling. And he cannot be here, around so many dragons. Do you truly think he would want them disturbing his rest?”

She still remembers finding that nest as a young girl, exploring some dank cave close to the lowest reaches of the Dragonmont. She and Laena had been rushed back to the castle by their guards where Alicent anxiously waited with the rest of her ladies, but they had seen enough already. Even Laena whispered of her shock afterwards. The few eggs not crushed to fine powder lay cracked open, the contents picked clean, each and every hatchling in the entire nest gone with only a single severed tail to betray them.

“I’d like to try the Cannibal against Vhagar,” Laena had vowed to them all that night, dashing and dauntless as any knight in her fine silks and well enthused by the prospect of her challenge. “See if he finds so easy a meal in her.”

Luke frowns then, nestling down amongst his pillows like some fluffed-up sparrow.

“I don’t think so,” he says eventually, blinking up at her with those large, liquid brown eyes. “I don’t think he does like people very much. Or dragons. Only me.”

The Cannibal had looked into those eyes too. The dragon had been close enough to see its own reflection, wildfire overlain over the dark as a broken spear fell from her child’s soft hand.

Rhaenyra thinks of another weapon then, Luke’s piping shout - “he was going to kill Jace-”

She thinks of Alicent’s son, his face carved open, and the hunger burning hot in the Cannibal’s eyes, and she wonders.

But most of all, she thinks of her fears for all of them - her boys, dark-haired and perfect the moment they were laid at her breast, the girls who are Laena’s own legacy, all the sons and daughters still to follow now that Daemon has cleaved himself to her entire. The world she was given glimpse of as she tore helplessly towards the beach, as Alicent’s blade sought her son, one unforgiving and hideous in its possibilities.

The Cannibal can only ever be as nothing, compared to that.

. . .

The windows in the chamber she has been given on Dragonstone are large and airy, their sill framed by two sphinxes raking each other’s tails. They do not face in the direction of the beach, but that doesn’t matter. Grey Ghost’s presence whispers through her blood like the soft sigh of the tides. She would know him anywhere.

He’ll know her too, she thinks, in the sharper moments between the watered tinctures of milk of the poppy the maester brings her to soothe the throb of her hands. He must be young, barely larger than Vermax, and he has never had a rider. There is no one for Rhaena to measure up to his eyes, no comparison between Baela’s bravery or Mother’s fire. What lies before them now is bright and unmarked as fresh snow.

Or it will be, when they let her fly.

“You may ride when your burns heal, and no sooner,” Aunt Rhaenyra tells her archly, dabbing ointment on Rhaena’s burns with her own soft hands. “There has been quite enough foolhardy behaviour of late.”

Rhaena flushes, unused to being scolded as a troublemaker, but Rhaenyra’s smile softens the sting.

“Laena would laugh herself hoarse at your father and I both, for being so surprised. Your grandmother had forbidden her to try Vhagar, so she slipped away when we were supposed to be at prayer. The dragonkeepers had not fitted Vhagar’s saddle for years, so she climbed her tail and flew to greet Syrax and I barebacked. Wilful girl! It felt like half the city streamed into the streets to watch her in the air. I had never known her to be more joyful…until she wrote to me of her daughters.”

To Rhaena’s astonishment, there is a quavering note to her voice, one that sounds awfully like Rhaena’s when she is trying hard not to cry.

“She was so proud of you,” her aunt whispers. “How could she not be, like as the two of you were? Your father too. Do not think you ever needed a dragon, to make them know it.”

A knot eases in Rhaena’s chest as Aunt Rhaenyra hugs her then. She is not Mother, will never be Mother…but Rhaena finds it harder to be angry for that now, towards a woman who speaks of Laena Velaryon with such love in her eyes.

“You may go to see Grey Ghost later, if Maester Geradys permits it,” Rhaenyra says after pulling away, voice a little gruffer now. “The dragonkeepers say that his neck is healing well. He will fly…and so will you, when you’re ready. They have already taken his measurements for the saddle, though I fear we will needs must order a new one within the year. You both still have much growing to do.”

“What about Luke?” Rhaena asks, eagerly. “Will he have a new saddle too? We can fly together now!”

It will have to be a big saddle, closer to Mother’s than Baela’s, to fit Luke’s new dragon.

Rhaenyra’s smile looks tighter than before, but she is still gentle as she touches Rhaena’s shoulder, careful not to jostle her bandages.

“One day, mayhaps. Things are…more difficult with his dragon.”

“Oh,” Rhaena says, disappointed. Though she has to admit, she…she isn’t quite sure of Luke’s dragon. She still feels a little queasy when she remembers how the air itself had seemed to erupt into shadow and flame, the disbelieving pain as her outflung hands bubbled up in white blisters in that searing heat…and how none of it had been as awful as hearing those men, hearing Grey Ghost, scream in those jaws.

She’s glad Luke got a dragon. She knows what it’s like, to watch the skies jealously, alone but for the sting of being left behind. All their whispered plans of what Rhaena could do if their plan worked, the future she hadn’t fully dared to let herself dream of…Luke will fly with her for all of them now, and the thought sends excitement thrumming through her.

She just wishes the gods could have given him a nicer dragon. One as nice as Luke himself.

Rhaena’s not rude enough to say that though, when Luke shyly puts his head around her door the next day. He smells of ash still, though his skin glows pink from the scrub of a fresh bath, and his lip trembles when he sees the bandages swaddling her hands.

“Do they hurt a lot?”

“A little,” Rhaena admits. “But,” and here her voice almost comes out in a squeal, so happy that she can barely contain it, “we did it! Both of us! It worked, Luke!”

“I never meant for you to get hurt though, Rhaena,” Luke insists, padding over to her bedside with uncertain eyes. “Or Grey Ghost. I’m sorry. I didn’t know the Cannibal would come.”

“You stopped him though,” Rhaena says firmly, and if it wasn’t by the spearhead he’d snatched up from - from - from that black shape crackling on the ground, well, that doesn’t matter.

Luke had stopped it, had saved she and Grey Ghost both. Just as he had come running with Jace to help her and Baela without question, that night Vhagar was stolen. Just as he had used the knife to protect them all.

“And at least you won’t have to help me carry fish to the beach any more.”

“I didn’t mind it,” Luke says, which is a lie, because Rhaena saw how his face screwed up each time Cook dropped the bucket down in front of them, and she has to duck her head under her hair to hide her giggle. Through the fall of her braids, she sees Luke pad over to her bedside; he’s clutching a curved seashell, which he places carefully in her lap.

“There’s no crab in it, this time. I checked.”

Rhaena blinks, puzzled, and he shuffles his feet.

“Jace told me that you should always bring a lady flowers to help her feel better,” he explains anxiously. “But I couldn’t find any in the garden like the ones you used to write about from Pentos.”

She thinks of them even as he speaks, the petals curling over in whorls of pink and white like splashes of Myrish lace in Mother’s walled garden. Mother had liked to read her letters among their perfume; Rhaena still remembers curling up next to her, fingers carding through her hair as Mother read out the funnier stories tucked in Uncle Laenor or Aunt Rhaenyra’s writing.

“But I thought this looked more like them than the roses in the garden. It’s curly too, see? And it’s pink inside-“

He falters, staring between her and the shell. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” Rhaena manages, and she does, though her eyes swim with tears.

“I just…I w-want-

Mother, Pentos sunlight gilding her smile, the promise of home-

“I want the flowers in our garden,” she finishes, and is immediately ashamed of herself.

Luke’s face firms in sudden resolve.

“We can fly there then,” he declares. “Now that we have dragons. You, me, Grey Ghost, and the Cannibal. We’ll find your garden, and we’ll bring a flower home for you to plant, so they can grow here too.”

He pauses, face suddenly uncertain. “...If you don’t mind waiting until Mother lets me fly the Cannibal.”

“I won’t,” Rhaena assures him, feeling, in an odd kind of way, as light as the shell as she looks into his face. It has warmed in her hand, and she notices there’s a hole in the outer lip, where the pink fades into coils of white. She will thread her silver chain through it, and wear it close to her skin.

Anyone else, she might not believe they meant it when they made her a promise like that. But Luke had believed in her from the first. Luke had helped her win a dragon. Luke had stopped the Cannibal.

She’ll trust him until the day she dies.

“Where is the Cannibal now?”

“In his cave,” Luke says, sitting cross-legged as he looks up at her. “He wants me to come to him, but Mother hasn’t let me today. I’ll have to go to him soon, or he’ll try to crawl through the gates again. Syrax hates that. He hasn’t gone to the beach though, I promise. I don’t think Grey Ghost likes him.”

“They will be best of friends one day,” Rhaena vows, and her heart soars when Luke beams at her.

“Just like us.”

Rhaena has a dragon. Father is proud of her. She will see Mother’s garden again with her own eyes.

In this moment, all things are possible.

. . .

Viserys expects many things when the letter is laid in front of him, the wax embossed with the ancient seal of the princes of Dragonstone. His heart swells with hopes as he unfolds it, so many in number that almost all anger is forgotten in their midst.

Rhaenyra surely writes an apology. A recognition of the customs and decency she had flouted, the disrespect in her forgetting dear Ser Laenor so quickly; in wedding without the leave of her king, her father. She will offer contrition for all that Alicent has deplored, even though both must recognise such folly cannot be undone as his queen pleads; she will beg her forgiveness as her mother, so that they might meet once as friends.

She will even - ah, but here is the sorrow of a brother, even more so than the love of a father, stirring him - write of a new chapter, unmarred by the unhappy beginnings that preceded it. A new babe to fill her arms, a son to finally allay all that Daemon has lost.

But Rhaenyra writes of none of these things. Instead, he finds himself reading of her Lucerys, and a shadow that he has never laid eyes upon, but remembers of Dragonstone all too well.

The Cannibal.

He sinks back further into his chair, biting back an ill-natured curse as the movement sends pain throbbing from beneath his linen bandages. All his years weigh upon him then, cold and heavy as the crown upon his brow.

Rhaenys is with Lucerys already, Rhaenyra written. His relief at his cousin’s presence in this matter, steadfast and sensible to the last, overrides the twinge of irritated hurt that Driftmark should be informed of this before word was first sent to King’s Landing.

Corlys loves Lucerys well, as is only natural, the most precious keepsake left by poor Laenor as he is. But he should not forget himself in this. They may carry the Velaryon name, but Rhaenyra’s sons are of the king’s blood. A dragon’s claiming shall always be the concern of the Iron Throne.

And a dragon such as this…

Part of Viserys feels the surgery of pride that Rhaenyra must know, his mouth lifting in a smile as he envisions the awe and delight his own council will offer when he tells them such glad tidings. Ah, but Lucerys had proved his blood in truth, to follow his mother and take a dragon at such an age! House Velaryon can stand proud in their heir, for those foul rumours will finally be laid to rest with this. And to think of Aemond, and Daemon’s own Rhaena too! Surely his House’s future has never looked brighter, when all of the king’s blood now lay claim to a dragon’s glory.

So how then can it be, that there is winter’s chill in Alicent’s eyes still when he call her to him at night? That his daughter soothes her grief with his brother upon Dragonstone, that Daemon should dare overreach himself as Otto has so faithfully warned and claim her hand in scorn of his king’s express command?

And why, as such churlish discord plagues his house, the Cannibal should take his first rider?

A dragon that has ever been a bane rather than blessing to their blood. A dragon that devours its own as the king’s flesh devours him, now coiling around his blood’s heart as their divide cleaves his heart as never before.

Perhaps he is a fool, flinching from the mummer’s shadow as it plays upon his walls. But is it greater folly, to close his eyes to such portents as the gods lay them so clear before him?

One day, such will be Rhaenyra’s burdens to carry. But for now, it is he who sits the throne, and he must bear it for her, for them all.

And so it is the king’s hand, rather than a father’s, that dips his nib into ink and laboriously brings the process of instructing Princess Rhaenyra to bring her son to King’s Landing, that his grandsire may look upon his new dragon.

. . .

The training blade in his hand is wooden, the tool of a child, and that is only the first humiliation to be endured as he circles his target. The bristling head of the strawman seems to spread wide in mockery; Aemond’s blows fall wide of the painted circle on its chest again and again, his head split by a nauseating pain as the leather grip becomes increasingly slippery with sweat. Soon his remaining sight is wavering no matter how he tries to focus it, his breathing laboured as if he treks a mountain rather than performing a drill so basic the youngest, lowest-born page in the Keep could manage it.

At least his brother’s reluctance to bestir from the beds of his whores has finally overcome his amusement at observing this. The squires in the yard don’t dare turn their heads to watch after Ser Criston’s sharp warnings, let alone laugh, but Aegon had had no such constraints at Aemond’s first attempts, when even attempting to swing left him reeling about like a drunkard. He cannot say he misses him, no matter how Ser Criston sighs as he reports another absence to their mother.

Yet sometimes, when he staggers back amidst Ser Criston’s earnest encouragement, unsteady on his feet as a tottering infant - and that is what he is reduced to now, all that he has earned on the training ground wiped away by the same stroke that plunged half his world into agonising dark - he can’t help but notice the lack of another.

A voice soft-pitched with admiration and excitement, a small hand hot in his, dark eyes wide with awe as he watches Aemond move fluidly through drills his nephews hadn’t even yet been permitted to attempt. It had been an irritation at times, to have Luke trailing him about the Keep, not least the mirth it gave Aegon to foist their nephew on him as he took Jace off to the Dragonpit. Yet still there comes moments of disorientation, like the itching pull of skin when he tries to blink with both eyes, where he looks about, expecting an admiring shout or plead for instruction-

Then Aemond remembers once again, and rage grinds against the bones of his chest.

The blade has shattered to splinters by the time the messenger arrives, telling Ser Criston that the queen has need of them both immediately.

Normally, Mother can scarcely hide her worry at the sight of him returning from his drills; she praises his diligence and bravery, whilst a candle burns at the Warrior’s shrine each morn, Mother’s hands clasped in prayer that the gods give strength to his arm and shield him from any further wound. Today, though her face is tense with concern of an entirely different sort, all her polished composure doing little to mask her fury.

“A letter arrived from Princess Rhaenyra this morning. Concerning that boy.”

Aemond absorbs the news she relays in silence. Lucerys has a dragon now, one large and fearsome. Lucerys has Father singing his praises in the council chamber, telling all of the wonder he has accomplished.

Lucerys is leaving his nest on Dragonstone, finally flying back in reach after all these moons.

“They say his dragon is called the Cannibal,” Mother says, and she gives a shudder that may be unease or simply delicate disdain. “And apparently it is as savage and wild as those boys themselves. I begged your father to reconsider this foolishness, but he says he would see it with his own eyes. As if this whole affair is not Rhaenyra contriving to win his favour again-”

“She knows half the realm spits on her new marriage,” Ser Criston agrees, his hands folding neatly before him into fists. “The king’s love may blind him, but too many see her for what she is now, and her bastards too. She is desperate. Do not forget, she knows now she has your son to fear.”

Mother’s lips tighten; she is still fearful, after the last embers of her faith in her husband’s protection were quenched in Driftmark, to hear the truth spoken aloud.

None will dare force her to parrot Rhaenyra’s lies when Aemond rules the skies upon Vhagar.

It had been one of the few comforts Aemond could hold into as he lay recovering in his sickbed, the knowledge of that incredible strength and power of Vhagar in flight. The knowledge that the oldest dragon in the world had looked upon him, and seen worth, even when no one else had.

And sweeter still, to know that it was one thing the bastard could not take from him, that little Luke had probably spent every night since pissing himself in fear on Dragonstone, knowing that he remained tethered and helpless on the ground.

Now Luke has a dragon. And Father expects all to marvel at his glory.

Aemond had longed for a reunion once all the thankless promise of the training yard finally bore fruit. Had pictured it a thousand times over, fantasy mingling with memory of that night. Luke’s choked gasp as Aemond’s palm slides against his soft throat, those dark eyes drawn black with fear as Jace writhes in the dust beneath Aemond’s heel.

To think, though, of the bastard seeing him as he is now, near a cripple with command lost of his blade, even his own balance, and rage churns afresh with his shame.

But still. Luke, finally come forth from the safety of his mother’s skirts. There will be opportunity here, if Aemond has only the wit to seize it, no matter how carefully Rhaenyra watches her precious son.

“It is monstrous, that they dare show their faces. But you will not be made to endure this for long,” Mother vows, reaching out to stroke his hair. Her touch is featherlight, belying the iron resolve of her words.

“My darling, I promise you this. That animal will not be allowed to harm you again. Perhaps this will at least give your father cause to remember what he took from you, what they would take from us all if left unchecked. His crimes against you will be answered one day, by men or gods.”

But it was not the gods, the same gods who see fit to bless Luke with yet another gift the bastard does not deserve, who had the will to seek Vhagar at her rest. Who grimly rises, day by day, to claw back mastery of his own body. No gifts are ever thrown into Aemond’s lap as a favoured son; what he wants, he can only take.

What vengeance he is owed from Luke Strong, he will seize with his own two hands.

#house of the dragon #lucerys velaryon #lucemond #cannibal the dragon #aemond targaryen #carrion #rhaenyra targaryen #viserys targaryen #alicent hightower #anon ask #rhaena of pentos #Luena #baby luke au

89 notes · View notes